A single vein—red and blue—winds through the parchment
like a thought refusing to end.
It empties into a shell of glass and mineral,
a small mountain dreaming of storm.
At its peak, a transparent heart turns slowly,
its currents mapping constellations that do not yet exist.
At the base, rows of vials stand in ceremony:
clear, clouded, blue, green—
each one holding a season distilled for study.
The script below murmurs like a recipe
for the distillation of weather.
The Maharajagar 